Not An Addict
by Alipeeps
Summary: Her heart was in her mouth as they carried him through the gate.. A rather dark Shep whumpy fic. Written for the Sheppard HC LJ Addiction challenge. WARNINGS FOR REFERENCES TO TORTURE AND DRUG ABUSE
1. Prologue: Intervention

_A rather dark Shep-whumpy fic written for the Sheppard HC LJ challenge using the "addiction" prompt. Prologue is kinda short but there is more to come… poor, poor Sheppy… :)_

_Reviews are love… :)

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_Breathe it in and breathe it out_

_And pass it on, it's almost out_

_We're so creative, so much more_

_We're high above, but on the floor_

_Not an Addict – K's Choice_

Her heart was in her mouth as they carried him through the gate. He was unconscious on the stretcher, white-faced and bruised beneath a coating of grime and dried blood. As she ran down the stairs from the control room she silently thanked the instinct that had made her send medical support with the retrieval team.

Lorne's face was grim as he made his report, the two of them stepping to the side as Carson and his team brushed past them with a gurney, conferring immediately with the returning medics as they supervised Sheppard's transfer from stretcher to gurney. Elizabeth found it hard to keep her eyes from straying to Sheppard's limp form as she listened to the details of the Colonel's rescue.

The members of Sheppard's team hovered near the gurney, their faces showing the strain of what they had witnessed during Sheppard's rescue, their concern for their team mate and friend. Elizabeth had to bite her lip as Lorne stoicly described the conditions in the prison cum hospital in which the extraction team had found Atlantis' military commander. If merely hearing the bald, unemotional facts of Sheppard's treatment at the hands of the Drethans made her feel sick to her stomach, how much worse must it have been for his team to find him in that place, under those conditions. Her gaze lifted from Sheppard's battered body and she found herself meeting the eyes of Dr McKay. One look at the hollowness in the man's gaze more than answered her question.

She stepped back as the gurney was rolled past her, Carson almost oblivious to the presence of anyone else in the gateroom, his attention focused entirely on his patient as he hurried him to the infirmary. Elizabeth couldn't help but stare in a kind of horrid fascination as the gurney rushed past; it seemed that time itself moved in a kind of stilted, jerking motion, her mind recording only a succession of frozen images, a confused jumble of torn, filthy uniform, bloody scratches and bruises, and of pale, dirty skin marred by a succession of red, angry puncture marks. A tremor ran through Sheppard's body as they wheeled him away and her last image was of his hand twitching, clenching and flexing restlessly; she realised with horror that, even unconscious, he was still suffering, his body jerking and spasming from the drugs that had pumped into him.

The gurney turned a corner and was gone from view and for a long moment nobody moved, the air in the gateroom thick with emotion, shock and fatigue leaving them drained and exhausted. Elizabeth looked around at Sheppard's team mates and saw dejection and fear in every face, mixed with a guilt that matched that which she felt churning in her own stomach. Logically, they had done all they could, had acted as quickly as possible to get Sheppard back… but that cold, logical fact was little comfort when faced with the visual evidence of the treatment their friend had suffered whilst alone and defenceless in the hands of strangers.

Ronon was the first to break the shell-shocked silence in the room, leather creaking as he turned abruptly and strode from the gateroom, his voice rough as he stated shortly, "I'll be in the infirmary." His words seemed to galvanise them all into action and Elizabeth could almost see Teyla and McKay shake off their weariness, gathering their strength for the long hours ahead. Every one of them in that room knew that the battle was not over. Bringing Sheppard home had been only the beginning; for John the real fight was still to come.

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_TBC…_


	2. Addiction

_The deeper you stick it in your vein_

_The deeper the thoughts, there's no more pain_

_I'm in heaven, I'm a god_

_I'm everywhere, I feel so hot_

_Not an Addict - K's Choice_

The infirmary was a flurry of activity as Carson's team clustered around the bed where Sheppard lay pale and shivering, tremors shaking his body, his limbs twitching spasmodically. Carson had to have a nurse hold the Colonel's arm still whilst he carefully pushed a needle into a vein, the routine task, so intrinsic to the nature of his work, made suddenly distasteful to the doctor as he added his own puncture wound to the line of track marks marring Sheppard's arms. Carson's movements were careful and precise as he let one sample container after another fill with blood, handing the various containers off to a waiting nurse before gently removing the needle, painfully aware of the quivering tension in the muscles under his fingers as he pressed a piece of cotton wool to the small incision.

Carson hadn't really been surprised when he got the call. Perhaps it was some kind of obscure instinct, that same nagging feeling that had made Elizabeth send some of his trained EMTs with the retrieval team, or perhaps it was simply the voice of long experience, of having seen Colonel Sheppard come back from too many a mission in need of medical care. Either way, the moment his earpiece had activated Carson had realised that, ever since Lorne and SGA1 had left, he had been subconsciously waiting to hear Elizabeth's voice on the com requesting a medical team to the gateroom.

What he hadn't expected was the sight that had met him there. He'd brought a gurney with him merely as a precaution, part of SOP for these situations, but somehow, even knowing the Colonel was in need of medical treatment, he'd been stunned to see Sheppard lying limp and still on a stretcher, looking like he'd been to hell and back. The atmosphere in the gateroom had been palpable, thick with tension, Sheppard's team hovering protectively around their fallen CO, their faces rich with fear and something more; something Carson did not have time to worry about, his concern first and foremost for his patient.

His first close up view of the damage done to Sheppard had hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, momentarily freezing him in place, stealing his breath in a single, harsh exhalation. He'd had to force himself to shake off the moment of shock and focus on the here and now, on treating his patient. Nonetheless, he'd frowned to find his hands trembling slightly as he had begun his rapid assessment of the Colonel's condition. He'd seen Sheppard come back from missions bruised and battered, far too often for his or the Colonel's liking, and often times with injuries far worse than those he could see on immediate examination, but he'd never seen Sheppard looking like this; it was not the pale skin that worried him, not the bruises and the raw scrapes and scratches. No, what concerned Carson, what made him despair for the future of the human race when they could see fit to treat each other this way, were the rough, angry abrasions around Sheppard's wrists, indicative of some form of restraints, and the line of ugly track marks up the Colonel's bare arms. Even as he had carefully examined his patient, he'd been able to feel the fine muscle tremors, see the tiny, restless movements that told him that, unconscious or not, Sheppard's body was still suffering the effects of whatever drugs his captors had seen fit to inject him with – from the look of his arms, on multiple occasions.

Carson had looked up from his work to see Sheppard's team still hovering and now the emotion in their faces was easily identifiable, for Carson felt those same emotions burning within him; a deep, cold anger mixed with a feeling of terrible foreboding and helplessness. He couldn't imagine what conditions they'd found the Colonel in, what horrors they'd seen in their quest to bring him back home and he found himself thankful that he had not been with them, had not been faced with the stark evidence of the abuse Sheppard had suffered, because he was a doctor, a healer, and he believed fervently in the oath he had sworn – to do no harm - but right at that moment, looking at the battered, trembling body on the gurney, he had felt a terrible urge to do serious harm to the people who had done this to his friend. Not trusting himself to speak, he'd focused all his attention on Sheppard and hurried wordlessly alongside the gurney as they raced to get the injured man to the infirmary.

As the nurse rushed the blood samples to the lab for immediate testing, Carson turned his attention to a more thorough examination of his patient. For the moment, there was little he could do for Sheppard other than treat his external injuries. Until they knew more about whatever drugs the Colonel had been given, Carson simply could not risk giving him any kind of medication; the risk of interaction was too high and the results could easily be life-threatening.

Colonel Sheppard remained unresponsive as the medical team checked blood pressure and pulse, his limbs loose and heavy as they slid the pressure cuff from his arm, lifted his hand to place a pulse-ox monitor. The hum of activity seemed to pause for a fraction of a second as a nurse cut away Sheppard's grimy t-shirt and Carson fancied he could almost feel the brush of air against his skin at the collective intake of breath. Sheppard's torso was mottled with bruises, the reddened flesh just beginning to purple and swell. Dear god. He'd been gone for barely 12 hours and those.. those _animals_ had done all this damage in that short time. Carson sent a silent prayer of thanks that they had gotten the Colonel back when they did. If they'd been even an hour or two later…

The heart monitor began to beep steadily as a nurse attached pads and leads to Sheppard's battered chest.

A frown creased Carson's brow as he gently lifted the Colonel's eyelids and immediately noted the shrunken, pin-prick pupils; the multi-hued colour of Sheppard's irises huge against the whites of his eyes. There was no reaction, none of the usual flinching away from the light when Carson checked pupil reactions with his pen flashlight and in that moment he heartily missed the Colonel's usual stubborn aversion to physical exams. His frown deepened as he flicked the light carefully across Sheppard's left pupil, once, twice, before repeating the process on the right eye. Both pupils remained fixed and shrunken, no reaction at all. Dammit.

He tapped his radio briefly, "Dieter, have you started work on Colonel Sheppard's bloodwork yet?"

"Working on it right now, sir."

Carson allowed himself a brief smile; in the 8 months Dr Klare had been assigned to Atlantis, he had yet to convince the man to address him as anything other than sir. "Okay, son. The Colonel is showing some symptoms that would seem to indicate opiates so that may be a good place to start."

"Very well, sir." The radio clicked as the connection closed.

Carson turned his attention back to his patient with a heavy sigh. The Colonel looked thin and pale against the stark white sheets of the infirmary bed, his uniform filthy and torn, his exposed skin bloodied and dirtied. His body seemed relaxed, his head slumped slightly to the side on the soft pillow, but Carson could see the tension come and go in Sheppard's muscles, his limbs continuing to twitch restlessly. Given what Sheppard must have gone through to be returned in this state, Carson couldn't honestly begrudge the Colonel the temporary relief of unconsciousness. He also didn't envy Sheppard the difficult days ahead; as yet he had no idea what the consequences might be of the drugs the Colonel had been given but the suggestion of an opioid element raised worrying concerns about the possibility of addiction – and withdrawal. All that aside, however, having an unconscious patient was not ideal from a treatment standpoint; he couldn't ask his patient where he was injured or ascertain any pain levels to help diagnose injury. With a heavy heart Carson watched a nurse pull the privacy screens around the bed as his team began to cut the remaining clothes from Sheppard's trembling body.

By the time they got Colonel Sheppard into a gown and started a saline IV, they had found more evidence of bruising developing across Sheppard's body and had cleaned numerous small scratches and grazes. There was no sign of any more serious physical injury and the main concern remained the evidence of injection of drug or drugs unknown. What those drugs might be doing to the Colonel's body was anyone's guess; Carson had already started Sheppard on oxygen to combat a depressed respiratory function and if the drugs were opioid in nature, as he suspected, they could be looking at a host of other complications. Carson couldn't help his gaze from straying to the ugly line of puncture wounds as he gently dressed the raw abrasions on Sheppard's wrists; he counted seven different injection sites, three on the left and four on the right, clustered along the lines of the Colonel's veins. He pressed his lips together angrily as he concentrated on his task, Sheppard's arm twitching in his grip as he carefully wrapped soft gauze around his wrist.

As fast as the lab was working, Carson was still waiting for results of the blood tests when the Colonel began to show signs of regaining consciousness.

"Colonel Sheppard? Can you hear me, son?"

Sheppard's restless shifting had grown more pronounced and he stirred groggily at Carson's voice, his eyelids fluttering.

"Colonel?"

Sheppard's throat worked and his breath misted against the inside of the oxygen mask. Carson frowned and leaned forward to press a stethoscope to the Colonel's chest. For a moment, as he touched the cool metal to Sheppard's skin, the man's eyes opened wide and Carson found himself staring straight into those oddly pin-pricked eyes from mere inches away. Before he could speak, Sheppard's eyes fluttered closed once more and he turned his head weakly on the pillow, his lips moving soundlessly. Carson found he had been holding his breath and he let it out with a conscious effort. Sheppard's gaze had been glassy, unfocused, and Carson wasn't sure the Colonel had even really seen, let alone recognised him.

"Colonel Sheppard. It's Carson. I need you to wake up for me, son."

Sheppard's arm flinched away from his touch as he tried to rouse the man and the eyelids fluttered again, a muffled, unintelligible mumble escaping from beneath the mask.

"Colonel?"

Carson took Sheppard's face in his hands, stilling the Colonel's restless motion. The skin was damp beneath his fingers, sweat springing up across Sheppard's brow, beading his upper lip. Carson gently pried open an eyelid and frowned; there was no attempt to focus, no sign of awareness or recognition. He fumbled for his pen flashlight and checked for pupil reaction; still fixed and unresponsive but this time Sheppard did react to the light, screwing his eyes shut and pulling away from Carson's grip, the oxygen mask muffling a small whimper. It was the closest thing to a normal response he'd had since the Colonel was brought through the gate and Carson couldn't hold back a small, sad smile.

"Come on, lad. It's Carson. You're safe on Atlantis. I need you to wake up now."

Sheppard's breathing seemed to hitch at the word Atlantis and a shudder ran through the Colonel's body. Sheppard's eyelids fluttered, opened, closed and opened again. And stayed open. Carson allowed himself a genuine smile of relief as he leaned down to meet Sheppard's gaze.

Was it just wishful thinking or was there a glimmer of awareness now in those pale, glassy eyes? Sheppard lay unmoving in his infirmary bed, his limbs twitching involuntarily, staring almost sightlessly straight ahead.

"Colonel Sheppard? Are you with me, son?"

For a moment he thought the Colonel's gaze focused on his face but then it slid away, the pin-pricked eyes flicking rapidly from side to side as Sheppard seemed to struggle to make sense of his surroundings. The Colonel raised a jerky hand to his face and pushed ineffectually at the oxygen mask, his throat working as his face creased in a frown of.. of pain? Confusion? Carson couldn't be sure.

He gripped Sheppard's arm gently but firmly and pushed it back down on the mattress, resettling the oxygen mask as he kept up a soothing, low voiced litany of reassurance. "You're okay, John. You're safe on Atlantis. We're taking care of you. You're going to be just fine." His heart ached a little at his words of comfort; if only he knew them to be true. He sighed. Sheppard was conscious, yes, but he seemed only minimally aware of his surroundings and certainly not lucid enough to communicate and tell Carson anything that would help his treatment.

"Dr Beckett, sir!"

At that moment a harried voice interrupted his reverie and Carson turned from the bed to see Dr Klare, looking flushed and worried, a datapad in his hands. He frowned.

"Is that..?"

"Yes, sir. The Colonel's blood test results." The usually reserved German swallowed apprehensively. "You need to see this, sir."

Before Carson could reach out for the datapad, a sound drew his attention back to the bed, just in time to see the Colonel's eyes roll back in his head and his body arch convulsively off the mattress. Carson reached out instinctively, trying to hold Sheppard in place as he body writhed momentarily before dropping abruptly back onto the bed to lie utterly still. Too still; there was no movement of Sheppard's chest, no rhythmic rise and fall. Dammit. He wasn't breathing.

Carson tore the oxygen mask from the Colonel's face and looked around to find Klare frozen to the spot, his horrified attention riveted on the unmoving Colonel Sheppard. Carson's desperate shout snapped the junior doctor out of his daze.

"Don't just stand there, get me an intubation kit!"

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_TBC..._


	3. Withdrawal

_A/N : Lots of medical terminology and stuff in this chapter: internet research can only take you so far so if any of the medical stuff doesn't make sense then my apologies, I did my best! ;)_

_Reviews are my wraith enzyme… :D

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__It's over now, I'm cold alone_

_I'm just a person on my own_

_Nothing means a thing to me_

_No, nothing means a thing to me_

_Not An Addict – K's Choice _

In an instant, Carson's world was narrowed down to one single, overriding concern; his patient. Everything else was peripheral, his focus entirely on the need for immediate action, adrenalin making his pulse race as he grabbed the bed railing and roughly hauled the wheeled bed out from the wall, sliding himself quickly between the array of monitoring equipment to stand at the head of the bed, looking up impatiently to snatch the proffered intubation kit as Klare fumbled it from the nearest supply cabinet.

His movements were urgent, precise, yet oddly gentle as he carefully raised Colonel Sheppard's head, pushing the pillow down to support his neck in the correct position and pushing firmly on his chin to open his mouth. Sheppard was limp and still, unresisting, as Carson ripped open the sterile packaging and laid the kit down within easy reach. He snapped open the laryngoscope with a practised flick of his wrist and inserted the cold metal instrument into Sheppard's mouth.

Time seemed to drag, Carson painfully aware of the passing of each second that Sheppard's body was deprived of oxygen as he struggled to visualise the glottis, muttering in frustration, "Dammit. There's too much swelling.." He was oblivious to Klare's hovering, anxious presence, to the nurses who had run to assist in the crisis. Time raced by far, far too damn quickly and yet, at the same time, each moment seemed to last a lifetime.

"Nearly there, nearly… got it!" He let out a triumphant shout as he reached for the endotracheal tube, sliding it carefully into place before quickly removing the laryngoscope and pulling the stylet from the tube, a well-trained nurse handing him an ambu-bag before he could even open his mouth to ask. Momentary relief flooded warmly through his veins as he connected the bag, the nurse stepping up immediately to take control of pushing air into Sheppard's lungs as Carson moved around the bed to throw back the sheets and lean anxiously over his patient, settling the stethoscope into his ears, pressing the cool metal bell first to Sheppard's stomach and then to his chest.

He felt the awful knot of tension in his shoulders begin to ease a little and realised belatedly that he had been unconsciously holding his own breath as he listened to Sheppard's chest. "Breath sounds equal," he murmured thankfully to himself as he continued to move the stethoscope over Sheppard's lungs. The Colonel's chest rose and fell gently under his touch as air was forced rhythmically into his lungs. Finally, Carson straightened, breathing out a slow, deliberate exhalation as he accepted that the crisis was past; his patient was stable. He scrubbed a hand across his face, feeling suddenly exhausted as the short-lived burst of adrenalin-fuelled energy deserted him, and smiled gratefully at his team.

"Good work, everyone. Let's get the Colonel on the ventilator please, Siobhan." His voice sounded a lot stronger, a lot more calm and confident than he felt. Grateful that the immediate danger was over, he took a moment to just stand and breathe and gather himself, trying to consciously relax the tension from his body, looking on as his team went to work taking care of Sheppard, disconnecting the ambu-bag as they hooked the ET tube up to a ventilator. Confident that Colonel Sheppard was in good hands, he firmly pushed aside the cold knot of worry that lodged in his throat and turned his attention back to the serious issue of the Colonel's long-term prognosis. Dr Klare was still hovering nearby, looking a little shell-shocked and nervous, his attention still drawn to Colonel Sheppard's battered body and the sudden drama that had unfolded before him. Carson was forcibly reminded that the young doctor had very little trauma experience; he'd done a rotation in emergency medicine as part of his training but his specialist area was laboratory analysis, specifically haematology and clinical pharmacology, and Carson had chosen Dr Klare for his staff primarily for the man's unparalleled knowledge and experience in his chosen arena.

Carson made a mental note to schedule some refresher training for all medical personnel, including the laboratory staff, on trauma procedures. It was a sad fact of life here in the Pegasus galaxy that he couldn't afford for any of his medical team to be hesitant in a trauma situation. He kept his voice calm and business-like, drawing Dr Klare away from the bed with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Dieter. You had something to show me, son?"

The younger man tore his gaze from the flurry of activity around the Colonel's bed and nodded, holding out the datapad almost reluctantly; Carson accepted it with a frown, his heart sinking as he skimmed through the data.

He looked up at the specialist with a grimace. "You're sure about this?"

Dr Klare nodded unhappily. "Yes, sir. I've identified at least three different drugs in the Colonel's bloodwork, one of which definitely seems to be opiod in nature, as you suspected, but much stronger than any such drug I've come across before. His system has already metabolised most of it.. and yet what little remains is still having a profound physiological effect."

Carson looked back at the test results, his frown deepening as he read through Klare's observations. The Colonel's electrolytes were all over the place, his body showing widespread systemic reactions to the cocktail of drugs he'd been injected with – drugs whose nature they had only partially identified, whose purpose or eventual effect they could only make an educated guess at. The only piece of good news that could be gleaned from the results so far was that the opiate drug was almost certainly responsible for Sheppard's current respiratory difficulties.. meaning that his respiratory function should recover spontaneously as the drug was slowly metabolised from his system.

Carson's gaze wandered back to the pale, bruised body surrounded by wires and tubing and machinery and he found himself weighing the datapad thoughtfully in his hands as his eyes lingered sombrely on the angry track marks marring Sheppard's arms. The Colonel's face was already partially obscured by the mass of tubing connecting him to the ventilator, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the steady hiss-click of the machine that was keeping his airway open, keeping his blood oxygenated. The twitches and fine muscle tremors that had ceased as Sheppard's body had shut down when he stopped breathing had begun to return and, even as he watched, the Colonel's body shivered briefly and his fingers flexed spasmodically.

Dr Klare was continuing to elaborate on his findings and Carson listened carefully to the specialist's words as he scrolled through the readouts on the datapad, Klare's voice becoming animated as he discussed the results, reaching over to point things out on the screen.

"This drug seems to be some kind of anti-convulsant or paralytic. I can't be sure, but it's possible that the Colonel's tremors and muscle contractions are related to the breakdown of this drug, perhaps a symptom of withdrawal?"

The young doctor's face twisted as he pointed to the data on the third and final drug on the list. "This is the one that I am most concerned about," he admitted hesitantly. "I've never come across a drug quite like this before and I can only guess at its purpose. All I can tell you for certain is that it seems to be acting on the Colonel's nervous system. Quite what its effects are…"

He trailed off, his manner uncertain as Carson looked up at him enquiringly.

"What is it, son?" Carson pushed.

Dieter's swallowed, his eyes dark as he regarded Carson earnestly. "If my suspicions are correct…"

He broke off, a sick expression on his face as his gaze slipped to the side, skittering across the pale and bruised figure twitching and jerking in the infirmary bed. "The drug is targeting the nervous system, specifically the sensory nerves and the areas of the brain that process physical sensation. If I had to hazard a guess… I would say that this drug was intended specifically to attack those areas in order to… cause pain." His eyes were hollow as he met Carson's eyes.

For a long moment Carson couldn't think of an answer to that, couldn't trust himself to speak. He felt the anger at the people who had done this coalesce into a hard, cold lump in his chest, making his breath shorten and his heart ache fiercely. He forced himself to breathe around the block of pain, to push the anger aside and think rationally, proactively.

"Okay. Okay.." He spoke carefully and quietly, surprised at how normal he sounded. He felt like there was an icy layer of calm coating his throat and if he moved too quickly, spoke too harshly, it would shatter and fragment, driving shards of pain and anger deep into his flesh. He stared at the datapad, considering the information before him, assessing it, applying it to treatment protocols. When he raised his head to look at Dr Klare, his face was tight, his emotion carefully controlled and focused, his energy devoted entirely towards finding a way to help his patient, his friend. "What are your recommendations?"

"There's little we can do about the opiate other than wait for the Colonel's body to metabolise it. I wouldn't recommend using an opiate antagonist at this point, it would be too stressful on the Colonel's systems in his current condition."

Carson nodded shortly. "I'm with you on that one, son. Colonel Sheppard has been through more than enough. We want to be looking to ease his suffering, not prolong it."

Klare frowned as he moved onto the next drug on the list, talking almost to himself as he considered the best direction to take. "The paralytic is more problematic. If his physical symptoms are related to withdrawal from the drug then they will only worsen as the drug clears from his system. I'd like to look at starting the Colonel on some medication to control the symptoms, possibly a similar anti-convulsant which we can then wean him off slowly."

Carson swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat as he asked, "And the third drug?"

Frustration was evident in Klare's face as he admitted, "We know so little about this drug, about what it is doing to the Colonel's body.." He gestured helplessly at the bed where Sheppard lay twitching sporadically. Carson's gaze was drawn back to Sheppard's battered body, to the dreadful bruises and scrapes, ugly against pale flesh, the angry track marks, the evidence of treatment on a level of barbarism the doctor had thought never to see. What kind of people developed a drug whose sole intention was to cause a subject pain? Anger burned hotly and he took that fire, that heat, and funnelled it into fierce determination; a determination to undo the vile work that had been done here and to bring his friend back to health.

His voice was still calm but there was a layer of steel to it now, a decisiveness that had Dieter almost snapping to attention before racing back to his lab.

"Okay then. I want you test for interactions for the paralytic, give me some options for medications we can give the Colonel to ease the withdrawal symptoms, and I want you to continue to analyse the third drug. If its purpose is what you think then we need to do something about that – and my options for pain relief are limited with the Colonel already having opiates in his system. Check for interactions, check for contraindications and find out _exactly_ what this drug is doing to him."

Carson turned back to the bed, taking the time to check the readouts on the heart and pulse-ox monitors, the flow of the respirator and Sheppard's vitals before pulling up a chair and lowering himself slowly into it. His body shuddered in relief as he settled into the chair and he realised suddenly how utterly exhausted he felt. There was little more he could do for Colonel Sheppard for the moment, until Dieter's further tests offered them some concrete treatment options, but for now he would do what he could; he would be here for Sheppard. The Colonel had yet to reawaken following his respiratory crisis and, given his obvious state of confusion when he had previously awoken, Carson wanted to make sure that there was someone to hand when Sheppard came to and found himself unable to breathe independently. It was a good, medical reason for him to sit at the Colonel's bedside and watch him sleep. It was a sound, reasonable, clinical decision. And it had the benefit of being true; he would have done the same for any patient in the Colonel's condition. Yes in his heart Carson knew that there was more to it than that, that he would have chosen to sit at the Colonel's bedside even had he not been on the ventilator. For reasons he couldn't quite name, couldn't quite find a way to articulate, it was important to Carson that, unconscious or not, Colonel Sheppard know that he was not alone.

He didn't notice at first when the Colonel did begin to awake. It had been an hour or more that he had been sitting at the bedside, passing the time by reading through in detail Dr Klare's preliminary report on Sheppard's bloodwork, unconsciously chewing at his lip as he frowned in concentration. Sheppard's intermittent tremors and twitches had been slowly worsening as time went on and, at first, he had taken the jerky movements of Sheppard's hands as just more random muscles spasms, more symptoms of withdrawal from the drugs. It wasn't until Sheppard tried to lift his hand from the mattress that Carson belatedly realised that the motion was conscious and intentional. He was on his feet in an instant, the datapad tossed carelessly onto his vacant seat, and leaning over the bed, checking vitals and readouts.

A faint frown had creased Sheppard's brow and, even as Carson watched, his eyelids fluttered briefly. His throat worked spasmodically and the regular beep of the heart monitor quickened its pace as Carson watched Sheppard gag on the invasive tube, his hands flailing jerkily as he tried to turn his head and found he couldn't.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

The eyelids fluttered again, the frown deepening, and then Sheppard's face suddenly creased in what looked like pain and his eyes shot open.

"Colonel?"

There was no response. No reaction.

"John?"

Sheppard's eyes were open but Carson may as well have been talking to himself. The pupils were still oddly pin-pricked and Sheppard's glassy gaze roamed randomly, flitting from place to place with no real sign of comprehension. His face was pale and drawn with a tightness around the eyes that Carson found worrying. Sheppard had never exactly been a cooperative patient when it came to pain relief, preferring somehow to manage on his own as much as possible, claiming, if pressed, that he hated the woozy, medicated feeling of strong painkillers. Carson privately suspected that what the Colonel actually disliked was feeling out of control – particularly of his own body. A by-product of their constant skirmishes on the issue was that Carson had developed something of a knack for diagnosing Sheppard's pain levels – if his patient wouldn't tell him when and how much it hurt, then he would have to learn to read it for himself from the smallest of clues. And right now, everything about Sheppard's posture and behaviour was telling him that the man was hurting… and there wasn't a damn thing Carson could do about it.

It went against every instinct he had, both as a man and a doctor, to see a person suffering and not offer relief but until Klare's tests were completed, he simply could not risk giving Sheppard any medication.

"John? Can you hear me, son? It's Carson."

Sheppard's eyes flicked over him and moved on, staring blindly through him as though he were not there. The Colonel's frown deepened and his throat worked helplessly, a sheen of sweat beading his brow. A jerking, twitchy arm raised from the mattress and grabbed fumblingly for the tubing obscuring the lower part of Sheppard's face. With a grimace of reluctance, Carson was forced to push the Colonel's arm, gently but firmly, back down against the mattress. Sheppard's nostrils flared in uncomprehending panic and Carson tried again to break through the fog of confusion and reach him.

"It's alright, Colonel. You're in the infirmary on Atlantis. You're safe now."

Sheppard's arm tensed and jerked in his grip and Carson wasn't sure how much of the motion was involuntary muscle spasm and how much the Colonel trying to break free of his grasp. An cold weight in his stomach robbed Carson of breath as he realised how this situation must translate to the Colonel in his confused state.. he had gone from a prison dressed up as a hospital where he had been restrained, tortured and injected against his will.. and now he had awakened, confused, disoriented and in pain, his mind clouded by drugs, in a familiar hospital setting, with invasive tubes in his body, unable to fend for himself and being physically restrained when he tried to move.

There was a definite roughness to Carson's voice as he spoke again, trying hopelessly to project some kind of feeling of safety, of comfort, "No-one's going to hurt you here, John. I know you're confused and you're in pain but we're going to help you. You're home, son. You're safe at home…"

For a moment Sheppard's dull, glassy gaze met his and Carson thought perhaps he'd reached him, he'd gotten through. Then the Colonel's back arched, his body twisting up from the mattress, and Carson found himself leaning across the bed, using his body weight to try and hold Sheppard down as he struggled and jerked, his throat spasming as he gagged helplessly, fighting the ventilator.

"Siobhan!" Carson yelled over his shoulder, struggling to keep a grip on his thrashing patient, "I need you in here _now_!"

The senior doctor on duty responded in an instant but, even with two of them - three of them including the nurse who also ran to help - they couldn't get the Colonel to calm down, could barely keep a hold of him as he twisted and jerked in their grip. The heart monitor blared an alarm as Sheppard's heart rate raced and Carson could see that he was still fighting the ventilator, trying to breathe on his own, disrupting the steady flow of air into his lungs.

"We have to stop this," Siobhan gasped, her face flushing from the exertion of trying to contain Sheppard's violent struggles, "he's going to hurt himself." Carson was forced to agree. Sheppard was fighting them ferociously, struggling to free himself from their grasp and they couldn't let this continue. Carson cursed fluidly.

"Okay. Dammit." This wasn't going at all well. "We're going to have to extubate him."

He caught the look Siobhan threw him and acknowledged her concern with a grimace. "I know, I know. It's hardly ideal. But the ventilator is making him panic and the very fact that he's fighting it tells us he's breathing spontaneously. I'd far rather leave him on it a while longer until we're sure his respiratory function is sufficiently recovered but I don't have the option to sedate him and restraining him is only going to make him panic more, as well as aggravating his injuries from the previous restraints."

Siobhan's expression said clearly that she was no happier about the situation than he but nonetheless she nodded firmly, unable to fault the reasoning behind his decision.

It took three extra nurses to restrain the Colonel enough for Carson to be able to disconnect him from the ventilator. His limbs continued to tremble and jerk as he fought against the hands holding him down and his pin-pricked, unfocused eyes rolled in fear and panic as Carson leant over him. Even in his confused, uncomprehending state, Sheppard's instinct, his natural reaction, was to fight, to resist, and Carson's stomach twisted as he wondered if this was why the Colonel had been given the second drug, the paralytic. From the abrasions on Sheppard's wrists and ankles, it was clear that he had been restrained – and had tried to free himself from those restraints. Carson could only surmise, his lips thinning with bitter distaste, that the Drethans had tired of Sheppard's continued resistance and had chosen to add chemical restraints to their abuse of the Colonel.

He kept up a soothing, murmured monologue as he worked to extubate Colonel Sheppard, trying to appear non-threatening, reassuring.

"It's okay, son. I know you don't like the tube. We're removing it for you now." The plastic tubing was smooth and cold in his hands, disconnecting from the ET tube with an audible click.

"No-one's going to hurt you here. You're safe on Atlantis…." Sheppard's eyes were wide, staring, the tension visible in his neck muscles as he fought against the firm hands on either side of his head as a nurse struggled to hold his head still long enough for Carson to safely remove the endotracheal tube.

"Just a moment more, John. All over soon…" Carson gripped the neck of the ETT firmly and, in a smooth motion, pulled the length of tubing from the Colonel's throat, watching carefully as Sheppard coughed and gagged as the tube pulled free and then, thankfully, sucked in a deep breath. He continued to cough weakly, his chest heaving, but he was breathing spontaneously, to Carson's relief. A nurse handed him a cup of ice chips and he leaned over the bed to carefully slide a piece of the soothing ice between Sheppard's parted lips. The shrill alarm from the heart monitor abruptly stilled as Sheppard instinctively sucked on the cool sliver of ice, his racing heart beat beginning to slow as his breathing settled and the trickle of melted ice eased the ache in his throat.

He was frowning, his gaze uncomprehending as Carson stayed with him, keeping up his soothing litany as he slipped another couple of ice chips into Sheppard's mouth. "There now. That's better, isn't it?"

Sheppard's eyes seemed to meet his and for a second Carson thought he saw a glimmer of reaction there, the merest hint of recognition. It was gone so quickly that he couldn't be sure he'd ever really seen it but, nonetheless, the Colonel's gaze stayed locked on his, the disconcerting, pin-pricked eyes staring blankly into his own. He couldn't be sure Sheppard was even focusing properly, even really seeing anything, but he was loathe to break this first hint of awareness, of contact with the confused, frightened man. Without looking away, Carson gestured at his team with a vague wave of his hand, the Colonel's struggles already beginning to slow. Picking up on Dr Beckett's meaning, Siobhan and the team of nurses carefully, very slowly, eased their grips on Sheppard's trembling body; moving carefully, so as not to spook him, they gently let go and stepped back from the bed.

Sheppard's limbs continued to tremble and jerk, muscle spasms flexing and tensing throughout his body, but his breathing calmed and his eyes stayed locked on Carson's.

"That's right, John. You're safe now. You're home on Atlantis. We're going to take care of you. No-one will hurt you here, John…"

Sheppard's brown furrowed, struggling for comprehension, and Carson's chest tightened in sympathy as Sheppard suddenly tensed, a soft, pained exhalation escaping him.

"I know you're in pain, John. I know, son. We're doing all we can to help. You're going to be fine, son…"

A shudder ran through the pale, bruised body and Sheppard's glassy, unfocused gaze seemed to momentarily sharpen. Carson swallowed, his stomach twisting at the fear and pain and anger he saw contained in that hollow gaze.

Sheppard's throat worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes still locked on Carson's. He swallowed and, in a dry, rasping voice, barely loud enough to hear, he croaked out a single word.

"Carson?"

* * *

_TBC…_


End file.
